When Tragedy Strikes
by Isisisawesome
Summary: Tragedy strikes the family of our favorite pairing, and their son is forced to stake it out alone during the second world war, with revenge as his motivation for life. Be warned, there is violence and gore and emotional trauma galore. The first two chapters were originally written for Dalek Week 2012 - 'Blindfold' & 'World War 2.'
1. Blindfold

**There is violence. You've been warned.**

* * *

He hated that blindfold, hated it with a burning passion.

That had been their first "order of business" upon entering his home – the very place that he lived, the very place that his children were to be raised and that he and Deryn, beautiful, beautiful Deryn, were to grow old together. And the first thing they did was blindfold him and tie him up, just so that he would be helpless to save them, and helpless to cover his ears against their terrible pleas for mercy, their cries of despair.

He tried reasoning with them, telling the men that he was the one that they wanted; he was the one that had put them in prison all those years ago. But they were deaf to his argument, just as they were deaf to his family's screams.

But he was not deaf. He heard the men's footsteps, heavy even where the carpeting muffled the sound of their German-made boots. He listened to them bang open every door in the house and drag out a cursing, kicking, fighting Deryn. But she was outnumbered, and though her maternal instincts to protect her children at all costs must have kicked in, just as his paternal ones had, it was not enough. She was outnumbered. He listened to those hateful men gather up his children, one by one, until they must have had all three.

He smelled the sharp tang of oil that must have been leftover on the fabric that now covered his eyes and nose.

His wife's familiar Scottish lilt filled the room, shouting robust, furious, desperate curses at the men who shoved her beside Alek. He tried calling out to her, but all that escaped his lips was a sickening wheeze that reminded him of the pain in his throat where they had broken his windpipe with a boot heel.

He listened to her call his name, then shuffle to him, sobbing and repeating his name over and over.

"The…chil…children…" he managed.

She screamed. It was a primitive, ear shattering sound. The word 'banshee' drifted into Alek's mind as he heard her jump up. A few of the men give startled yells. Glass broke.

Alek strained against his bindings with all of his might. He broke the pipe his arms were bound to and brought it over his head. He felt it collide with something or someone before he brought his hands to his face and ripped off the blindfold.

The scene in their modest living room was one akin only to that of war; hell itself, chaos personified. Deryn was fighting off one man with her bare fists and feet while struggling for control of a handgun in another's grip, her eyes wild, her nightgown torn and bloodied. She screamed, incoherent by now. Another man was attempting to tie two of their wailing children to their couch with a length of coarse rope, the same kind they had used on him. Their coffee table, a gift from Lilit, shipped from Istanbul, was overturned, and their prized ancient Chinese vase had been shattered on the ground. Two men lay unconscious on the ground before him, one no doubt taken out by his courageous wife, and one that must have been struck down by the blood-stained pipe that now dangled from his still-bound hands.

Somehow, he managed to let out an earthshaking roar and charge one of the men attacking Deryn. He beat him with his rope-bound pipe as the man fell backwards, the knife in his hands rendered useless against Alek's rage-driven rain of violence.

A thunderous BOOM rang out, and all he could hear after a few moments were his children, hysterically crying, crying, crying, for her, for him, for themselves. Blackness rushed up, covering his vision as fully as the wretched blindfold had, and the only thing that powered his movements now was his children's voices.

"Please, no! No! No! Don't, mister! Daddy, Daddy, help us!" He tried. He tried to help by lunging at the man who would bind them to their death. He slipped on the blood splattered all over the carpet and tried not to look at what used to be his wife. Her murderer got to him first and struck him across his already abused face. He spiraled down to the ground like a leaf in the wind and landed, hard, on the glass shards and the slick blood. He staggered up once more, ignoring the pain.

"Daddy! Mommy! Get up, mommy! We need you! Mommy! Daddy! Help! No! Please, no!" The men ignored Alek, slow and injured as he was. The gun aimed at his children. Only two? Where was the third? Where was his youngest son? He prayed that he had escaped and not been the very first of their victims.

Two shots rang out.

Alek closed his eyes for the last time, glad that the next shot was for him.

* * *

**Man, I put Alek through some shit! Sorry about that, I'm reading "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote right now for a summer assignment, so my mind's on murder. Anyway, he'll get some respite tomorrow with 'Summer Afternoons." I might actually continue this story with the one kid that survived. That'll be interesting. I don't really know where I would go with it though…hmm…anyway sorry again for the depression.  
**


	2. World War 2

Bonus! : Potatoes - DAY 1: Parents - DAY 2: Roaring 20s - DAY 3: Blindfold - DAY 4: Summer Afternoons - DAY 5: World War 2 - DAY 6: Obsession - DAY 7: Generations

Artemis Sharp Von Hohenburg– Dalek's youngest son – born 1925 – 14 y/o when war breaks out (1939), tries to join up ? – looks like Asa Butterfield – passes out the illustrated london news

"_Daddy! Mommy! Get up, mommy! We need you! Mommy! Daddy! Help! No! Please, no!" The men ignored Alek, slow and injured as he was. The gun aimed at his children. Only two? Where was the third? Where was his youngest son? Alek prayed that he had escaped and not been the very first of their victims._

_Two shots rang out. _

_Alek closed his eyes for the last time, glad that the next shot was for him._

Artemis woke up, covered in sweat even as he felt frozen to his core. He remained there, frozen in fear for a split second before he began to gasp for air like a fish out of water.

He threw his thin, moth-eaten blanket off and sat on the edge of his cot, breathing deeply, deeply, deeply. He used to cry uncontrollably after every one of these episodes, these nightmares that his father must have sent him from beyond the grave, or wherever they put him. But he had slowly learned to quell that habit thanks to the constant taunting by the other orphans. Now he stared, dead-eyed, into the night until the haunting thoughts had hidden in the depths of his mind once more.

Light began to seep in though the dirty windows of the London orphanage, and 14 year old Artemis Sharp Von Hohenburg needed to get going. He dressed quickly, throwing on his favorite jacket – a military surplus item that he had picked out from the donations bin on his birthday – and combing out his red-brown, ear-length hair with his fingers. He moved it to cover his eyes, which were perhaps his most striking feature: piercingly bright blue and containing so much sadness that it was hard for people to hold his gaze…hence, grabbing a soot-stained pageboy hat to further obscure them.

He moved back to his cot and poked the furry creature curled on his pillow. The perspicacious beastie, which had of course been awake as long as he had, fixed him with a soulful gaze and reluctantly moved to climb onto the boy's shoulder. Artemis scratched its scraggly chin, saying, "Morning, Bovril. Time to stretch your wee old limbs."

The boy slipped out the back door of the orphanage with Bovril safe in his jacket, for it was a blustery day, the first day of September if he remembered rightly. He made his way down the street to the paper factory, dodging the foot and creature traffic that was already mounting in the growing daylight. His stack of newspapers to deliver was waiting for him on the steps of the Illustrated London News building, and he scooped it up without breaking stride. He glanced down to break the twine that held the bundle together and saw a picture of the Prime Minister apparently walking to his personal walker and tipping his hat to an invisible driver. Immediately, Artemis began to throw the papers, one by one, onto the front steps of every building he passed.

The boy enjoyed this job. He didn't have to yell out the headlines he hawked, as he'd seen many other boys do, because the pictures spoke for themselves. And many times, he could actually understand what was going on in the world through the illustrations provided in his merchandise. His parents had of course taught him the fundamentals of reading, but without practice and proper schooling this skill had quickly deteriorated until it was nothing more than a ghost of what could have been. Just like everything else in his life had faded into a drab grey fabric of woven 'what if's. He was shaken out of his self-pity by a strangled cry behind him. He spun around, expecting to see a person being assaulted by a thief or something to that extent. Instead, his eyes were met by a woman, staring in horror at the paper – his paper – she clutched in her hands.

His brows furrowed as he watched her throw up her hands in despair and flee into the house, calling out the names of boys who were most likely her sons. The papers in his hands came up to his face seemingly of their own accord, and the loris' head popped out of the top of his jacket to appraise the paper with him.

The picture of the Prime Minister was the same he'd appraised earlier, and nothing seemed to be amiss – until his eyes fell upon the caption. He recognized at least one word: WAR!

"'This country is at war with Germany,' announces the Prime Minister," read the beastie. Of course old Bovril would remember how to read the letters on the page just now. It was the longest sentence the creature had said in a very long time.

Artemis stood there in shock, staring at the page.

He dropped his remaining papers and began to run to the nearest beastie-powered trolley stop, where one such trolley was loading passengers, headed for the airfield just outside of London. The crowds of people and fabricated animals were so thick now that he had to shove a few people to get through them, which happened to give him a nice opportunity to pick their pockets while they were distracted. Thus attaining necessary transportation fees, he boarded the trolley with no problem. It was so packed that he had to stand up in front of an old lady who smelled of rotten cheese, but he could not have cared less.

He was on his way to the recruiting station, and they had to let him in. He was young, but he was tall. And he was a fast learner. He was sure he could learn how to read in no time if someone were willing to teach him. Plus he had Bovril to help him. Bovril! Would they even let him keep the creature? A sudden wave of panic hit him at the thought of losing his only friend, his only family member, the last physical link to his parents he had. He resolved to hide and keep the loris at all costs.

They had to let him in. Germans killed his family. He was reminded of the screams of his mother and father and sister and brother as they were slaughtered, while he and Bovril had hidden in their secret cupboard, wide-eyed and shaking. He was reminded of running across cold fields for miles and miles with only the loris for comfort. He was reminded of sobbing for what seemed like years on the dusty country road he finally collapsed on.

Bovril wiped away the solitary tear than ran down Artemis' cheek. He stroked the creature absentmindedly and clenched his jaw tight.

They had to let him in. Germans had murdered his family. It was time for him to murder them.

**This is a continuation of my other fic, "Tragedy and a Blindfold." (No, I don't know how to put that link here.) **

**Anyway. I imagine Artemis looking a bit like Asa Butterfield. He was five when his family was killed, and now he wants to join the air force or at least some faction of the U.K.'s military so he can kill Germans and get even. (Oh Artemis, if only it was human nature to be so easily satiated, if only it were the way of life that everything should go according to plan.)**

**And this was written for Dalek Week – "WW2."**


End file.
